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My Life Retarded with KHT

19 September 2008

I got to be on the radio today on a local station 105.9 The Radiator to talk some more about the ART HOP debacle. It was fun. Did you know that today is "National Talk Like A Pirate Day?"

I thought it might have something to do with The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (and as it happens, I was right!) but no one at the station had heard of it, so I got to break that story on the air. Score one for the noodley team!

07 September 2008

Perhaps my fifteen minutes of fame has yet to arrive. Or perhaps, like a cat has nine lives, I'm destined to experience repeated quarter hours over the course of my life and career. This time my fame comes from controversy (who's surprised?).

This weekend, Burlington held its annual ART HOP and through a series of unfortunate (or perhaps fortunate?) events, I found myself at the center of an old debate: What is art? Is it decoration? And when a business agrees to host an art show, do they have final editorial license (or in my case ultimate veto?)

This was my first (and likely last ART HOP) and I signed up to exhibit two pieces - one for the outdoor juried show, and one for the indoor juried show. Through a clerical error, ART HOP assigned me an additional exhibition space to hang a personal show.

I found this out late last week when they phoned to tell me the time and place to drop off my artwork.

"Um, Mr. Art Organizer...I didn't sign up for a show."

"You didn't? Oh."

"Does this mean my name is printed in the program as showing somewhere?"

"Yes, but we could put up a sign that says you're not showing if you like."

"I don't think so. I'll have something for you as soon as possible."

So I put together a show of 24 postcard sized images of mostly bucolic postcardy stuff. The ferry returning for the evening on Lake Champlain. Scottish Highland cows lined up and staring into my lens. Macros of flowers etc. All benignly beautiful and uncontroversial except for the few images of dolls and mannequins I slipped in for my own good pleasure.

Three of the images were of a snow covered doll.

A day after I hung the show, and two days before the public exhibition officially began, I received a phone call from the organizers.

"Kimberley, I'm afraid I have some bad news....The business owner has asked that you take down your show."

"WHAT?! WHY?"

"She said that she didn't appreciate that you hung pictures of 'dead baby dolls' in her space."

"Baby dolls can't die because they were never alive."

"Well, she doesn't want them there."

"Ok."

He offered to let me move the show to SEABA headquarters. The problem was (other than the obvious) that I didn't really have time to move the show and anyway WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO?

So I thought about it and ranted about it some and thought about it some more. I decided to take the show down and wear it on the main day of the festival. I made a poster with an enlargement of the offending image that said, "Does This Photo Offend YOU?"

I also made fifty copies of the image with that slogan and my contact info that I gave out to people at the ART HOP and friends who wanted to support my cause.

The two local papers interviewed me. The 7Days blogged about it at BLURT (their staff blog) and the Burlington Free Press published it in this Sunday's paper (today).

For the record, I did not want to make this a pissing contest between me and SEABA or the business owner but the papers and their readership are sure trying to make it into that.

All I want is for this to stimulate dialog about how to avoid this type of situation in future. If I'd just sat still and done nothing about it - the business owner would have had the advertising she'd signed up for, the traffic funneled to her site and I would have had my name in the program with a blank space where my art should be simply because the host had a reaction to my work (isn't art supposed to illicit a response? Any response is good, right?).

People are pretty pissed that I didn't allow the situation to be swept under the rug, but I'm sticking to my guns (again, who's surprised?). I feel I represent all artists and that the business owner represents all business owners.

The question is, who has editorial control to decide what is and what is not appropriate for showing at businesses? What is art? Are these art shows, craft fairs or is this plain old fashioned business as usual?

Quixotically,XXKHT

”Do what you feel in your heart to be right, for you'll be criticized anyway .” -- Eleanor Roosevelt

01 August 2008

Here's a pic of my daughter Ashley and I last winter. We're very close and totally blessed to have each other. She lives two blocks away in her own apartment taking care of herself and doing very well. We see each other almost every day and I can't imagine daily life without her.

24 July 2008

A few months ago, I was contacted by my old internet friend Scott Austen Burgess. It was one of the rare instances where my beloved internet let me down because my chat program (Adium) failed to save the address before I could reply. I typed my message and it disappeared into the cosmos and I didn't hear from him again.

The truth is, I've been trying to get in touch for ages and I'm dying to talk to him after the several years that have passed with no contact.

The same goes for Aaron Anderson formerly known as "Openboil" (of podunk Ohio) and Robert Allen (of princess street, Old Town, Alexandria, Virginia) aka "Mr Puppet". Chances are poor that the latter two will find this, but Scott (if I know you like I think I do) will google this eventually and realize that I was not blowing him (you) off, but that it was a technical malfunction and I am indeed very interested in finding out what happened to you and how you are faring.

Write me again! All of you. I am always happy to hear from old dear friends. Sending this message into the ether with hope,XXKHT(key word: Baggywinkle)

20 July 2008

It's time to change gears and move away from my family's insanity. It's been a crazy week for my mother's family. My grandmother dehydrated and became very ill. She's getting better thank goodness. My mother's sister hasn't gotten the news about her illness, but her most recent visit to a doctor gave some hope.

My mother seems to have settled down and has now begun her own blog with a running feel sorry for me because my son died theme. I hope that works out for her. At least it appears to have detracted her energies from attacking me and mine.

My week has otherwise been productive and pleasant. However, today, sadly, I am delivering my little girl cat to my ex, because ever since she arrived here almost a year ago she and my large Tom cat have commenced the pissing contest for the ages.

I took her in from the street. Actually, she adopted me. I had been looking for a second cat for some time, and had gotten permission from my landlord to get a new kitty from the pound. I stalled for a few months because I had a feeling I should wait and see what the universe offered.

Along came the little girl as if on cue. At first she was awesome. The cats sniffed each other and even slept next to each other for the first few days.

Then the war began. It's been going non-stop - first with chasing and hissing and now, nine months later, the pissing contest that has ensued has hit critical mass. My male is spraying now - something he never did before.

I can think of no other solution. GIR (the male) is staying, because he's been my kitty since we got him at the shelter 6 years ago. Little GIRL has got to go.

I believe that all things happen for the best however. My ex is thrilled to have her, loves her already and is committed to the same cat care ethos as myself. No going outside. No moving without finding a place that will accept her. Decent food.

She loves him too, so other than my sadness at losing her - after all, besides the feral behavior (she was a street urchin), she's been a wonderful kitty. Super smart, exquisitely beautiful and extra affectionate.

She'll be good company for my ex. I suppose it's a win win, but still...losing a pet even to a new and more appropriate home is just sad.

Now I have to spend the next week trying to rid my apartment of her legacy. I ordered some exorbitantly expensive urine neutralizer solution(we'll see - possible review to follow). I have priced steam cleaners. I'm going to throw out my couch (I hated it anyway).

Here's hoping my male cat stabilizes and goes back to his fat, lazy ways and that my home returns to it's former reputation as a great smelling environment redolent of delicious foodstuffs and whatever naturally good smell I seem to apply. I hope he loves the new roommate who we'll be meeting later this week and we can all live happily ever after.

Fingers are Xed...XXKHT

"Curiosity killed the cat. Satisfaction brought it back!" English Proverb

26 May 2008

First of all, if there are still any of you out there who have actually missed my incessant ramblings, I apologize for the sudden hiatus. I've had sooooo much going on, I'm not sure where to begin.

For starters, I dissolved my relationship with my former partner. He's moved out and moved on - for the most part, sans some inexplicable bitterness because we are both way better off without the other, and I for one am feeling consistent happiness once again. Sad for him.

I've also begun a new job working for a hopping upscale breakfast and lunch place here in Burlington about a minute and a half bike ride from my apartment. It's the cleanest restaurant I've ever worked in and the people there rock. I felt right at home right away and that makes all the difference.

As of this writing, I have nine of the tires wrapped and painted and the tricycle is ready for installation. I have two more tires to finish and I still need to find another 27" tire to complete the set before I assemble the piece hopefully before Friday when I plan to have my Burlington friends over for a debut party, before installing it in front of The Inn at Montpelier on Saturday morning.

The following Saturday is the Sculptcycle Opening Celebration and Tour with a reverse parade wherein the artists and interested citizens will walk around town on a route to view the works and to acknowledge the artists along the way. The day will finish with an opening reception on the State House lawn with food and music and the awards will be announced at that time.

All that and my new found freedom have kept me as busy as I've ever been and every time I've thought about writing about any of it, I have had cause to consider how overwhelmed I should be and so I was. Go figure.

The Sculptcycle is well documented in photos but I haven't had a chance to do much editing, however I will post about the event and show plenty of pics after the event on June 7th. If anyone is reading this within attendance distance and would like to join the fun, please refer to the Sculptcycle website for specific details and make sure you introduce yourself while you're there.

Thanks for your patience and for your support (you know who you are)...XXKHT

You've
got a lot of things going on right now, but you don't have time to deal
with all of them. Solution? Delegation. Give away as many errands,
tasks and jobs as possible today. You have plenty of family members,
coworkers or friends who would be fine with taking something off your
plate, so give them a call. Find out who can help you out. By the end
of the day, things should start getting back to normal. Don't forget to
thank them for their help -- so they will want to help you again!

27 March 2008

It started out well enough. I sent out a job application first thing. After that I put on some housecleaning music and danced around deep speed cleaning. I vacuumed, which may not seem like much to you readers, but if you knew how much I hate the noisy heavy machine...

Then the doorbell rang and it was my daughter Ash with my surrogate daughter Hillary (Ash's best friend) and Ash's new beau, Rob, a kid I used to work with at Shitty Markup. A kid I was particularly fond of, so this is good news.

But there went my day; before I could say linguini, dinner plans were being made and the rest of the day was consumed with the making of it.

The coordinators arranged a series of recycle your bike drives and the artists are welcome to take what they need from the depots for free. The one here in Burlington is at Queen City Steel, down in the Intervale - go figure! (Could there be a more heavenly place?)

Anyhoo, while I was down there, I also grabbed an old bike to make my own that I admired again today after having noticed it during the first reconnaissance visit.

The bike I have at present was a generous gift by an amazing co-worker at Shitty Markup - she overheard a phone call at work about how my bike had just been stolen on my way to work as I stopped at a yard sale. As my back was turned, a brazen little monkey turd walked right up and rode away. He was half way down the street before I noticed and I had clogs on. Aack!

Plus, I was five minutes away from my shift.

I went to work and made phone calls on break while the co-worker, Christina - from another department and who I barely knew - overheard my story. As soon as I got off the phone she offered me a bike she had on her porch that she said she'd, "been meaning to do something with, but since she hadn't and I needed it, she'd like me to have it." Then she brought it in a week later and left the key in my mailbox.

Love that girl.

Anyway, it's a working bike, but it has failed to become my bike - because I need something special. Even more special than this karmicly blessed one. One in which it seems to know me as well as I know it (it happens, just ask a cyclist).

So today, down at Queen City Steel while Robert and I were digging in the icy snow to find twelve matching tires for the sculpture, there she was again, sticking out (admirably) like a sore thumb and calling me to take her.

She's a classic girls Huffy touring bike with an ancient teal base paint that has faded to a lovely blue/yellow patina. She sports bright yellow handlebar grips and there is more sunny yellow in her name stickers. She has some rust and will need all new tires, brakes and probably a spare part here or there, but other than that she's downright spiffy!

I was bragging her up to my friend Jess on the phone tonight and she wondered if the bike had a banana seat. I told her no, but it recalled my first two-wheeler that had that and of course those high handlebars with long, multi-colored, plastic tassels.

One otherwise ordinary day, while proudly cruising the neighborhood like a big girl on my new yellow two wheeler with it's many colored tassels, I completely bit it, and in the process bruised the hell out of not only my crotch, but also gained a fat, black shiner from those high, chrome handlebars.

Raped by a banana seat and bitch handlebar slapped on the way down - no helmet was gonna save me that day.

My friend Johnny wondered how many young girls lost their virginities to bike accidents. I told him it was most likely horseback riding before that - that is myself, as well as girls historically.

All I can say is my mother should be thankful that it was summer and there was no school. By today's standards she'd probably have served time for the implications alone if any authority had caught on.

Say, I just noticed I'm working some themes here. Post on 3/24: "Bad Things That Happened To My Crotch When I Was a Young Girl;" Post 3/25: "Bike Safety Story;" Post 3/26: "Bike Safety Story" and "Bad Things That Happened To My Crotch When I Was a Young Girl"

All this reminiscing,* has caused me to consider starting yet another blog:

"Don't Get Me Started - The Bizarre Story of My Life So Far" Despite my best intentions, PYtB's fairly well become that anyway,

XXKHT

The birthday list is as long as my arm ending in Robert Frost (137). If you wanna see for yourself go here: MARCH FAMOUS B'DAYS and skip down to 3/26 (duh) and don't forget to add four years.

24 March 2008

I'm completely bored with listing so I'm going to tell a story instead:

Up until about sixth grade, we had a farm in West Virginia. We didn't live there, it belonged to my father's mother's family and it was a place we spent many memorable weekends getting away from the suburbs of DC.

To call the farm rustic would not be a stretch, as the asphalt shingle house listed heavily to one side and the comical effect was plainly noticeable from the road. The house had electricity, but any and all of the heat came from a large wood burning flat top cooking stove in the linoleum tiled kitchen. Spring water, from the core of the mountain, ran continuously into an algae filled tub at the edge of the back porch and toilet facilities were out of doors, or, in winter we used old fashioned pee pots or "potties" as they're called in antique stores - collectibles now, I've noticed.

But this story isn't really about the farm, or it's house, it's about the time in third grade when I was allowed to invite the entire third grade class at Annandale Springfield Country Day School to Spring Gap West Virginia for a hay ride picnic down at the creek (or "crick" as they say in those parts).

When I say my entire class, it's not exactly true, because the class was made up of thirteen girls and one boy, James Bonzell, who once threw a rock at the playground and hit me smack between the eyes, causing the need for a stitch or two (oy the blood was everywhere).

Needless to say, James was not invited to the party and besides, we didn't do things like that back then. Boys parties were boys parties and girls were girls, at least up until jr. high school.

I honestly can't remember any other details of the party, up until the time we were coming back from the creek, the hay wagon filled with giggling little girls in bathing suits, drying out in the hot sun.

Somebody needed to use the bathroom, and since there was only an outhouse waiting for us back at the farm, my dad pulled the tractor over and we all ran into the woods, chaperoned by my aunt Shirley.

As we finished our business, Shirley handed out leaves she'd foraged because we didn't have any toilet paper. We piled back onto the hay wagon and headed back to the farm.

I don't recall the phone calls that must have come in from anxious parents that evening, but I do rememberl the horror of realization as my own poison ivy rash broke out later that day (or night). I remember that it was too nasty to attend school the next school day and I suspect it was the same for the others.

A portent to the many bizarre disasters that were to line up to create the storyboard of my life so far.

I imagine to many of those girls, and maybe even James Bonzell, I'm the girl in third grade who gave a crotch malady to the whole class. Or maybe some have blocked it out as one of life's traumatic childhood experiences. How special.